


Practice Piece

by rabidsamfan



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-15
Updated: 2009-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:04:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidsamfan/pseuds/rabidsamfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>February 1901, Watson has a very bad night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practice Piece

**Author's Note:**

> I offered this one up to the Watson's Woes community as a gigantic hairy plot-Yeti. It was originally going to be the setup for a slashy bathfic based on one of Spacefall's pictures, but that idea turned into [Haunted](http://community.livejournal.com/cox_and_co/169431.html) instead. So this was just floating around on my hard disk, taking up space. I had meant it to begin to explain why Watson moved to Queen Anne Street and Holmes decided to retire. It never got near to slash, and I still like the basic set up, but I don't care if someone else picks up the ball to run with it.

February 1901 was one of the coldest and snowiest months in memory, and there was more than one occasion when I had reason to regret my return to civil practice. That I would need to have some kind of occupation once Holmes succumbed to the inevitable and removed himself from the poisonous smogs of London I could not deny, and it would have been foolish of me to turn away the clients who had come to me for my medical advice once their more esoteric problems had been dealt with by my friend. By such means are a practice built. You cannot hang a red lamp outside your door and expect patients to come.

Still, the truth of the matter is that doctors are even more likely to find themselves knocked up at all hours than detectives, and between us Holmes and I had poor Mrs. Hudson ready to declare that there was no point in trying to cook a hot meal as no one would be there to eat it. With the cold weather there were plenty of calls on my time, between illness and injury, and Holmes was busy at the time with a delicate matter that required him to spend far more time in disguise at the docks than was probably wise. Fortunately, if it can be called good fortune, his rasping cough blended in with the general company, catarrh and bronchitis being endemic among the dockworkers at that time of year.

One of my patients was an elderly bachelor with a dyspeptic nature and a failing heart. He had, against advice, gone to a Valentine's Day dinner (because it was free) and contracted a severe cold, and it must be confessed that when I received the summons to return to his bedside on one particular cold and stormy night I groaned with dismay. I had that day already made three visits to patients with better manners and worse ailments and indeed had only just asked Mrs. Hudson to bring up the luncheon which had been sitting on the hob waiting for me for several hours. She, bless her, brought a small crock of stew and a wooden spoon to me, wrapped in towelling, and suggested that if either bowl or spoon were to be lost they would not be missed, but at least I'd have a chance for something hot during the cab ride.

I went to my patient fortified with her kindness, and it was just as well, for my patient's cold had worsened into pneumonia, and no sooner had I arrived than I began a long and lonely battle for his life. The slatternly housekeeper was of no use. She had sent the telegram to summon me, but had not thought to build up the fire in the sick man's bedroom. She did not even know how to contact my patient's nearest kin -- indeed, she thought he had no kin, for he never spoke of them. The most I could get out of her was to send more telegrams on her way home, one to an agency in hopes that they could send round a nurse, another to my patient's solicitor, and the last to Holmes and Mrs. Hudson, telling them not to expect me home any time before midnight.

It was some six hours later that a nurse turned up, by which time I had kindled a small hope that my work would not be in vain. It was still touch-and-go, however, and I did not leave for two hours more, when at last my patient was sleeping. The nurse was experienced and kindly, and we both understood that she was guarding what was very likely to be a deathbed, but there had been no word from the solicitor, and her presence was the best I could do. I did consider staying the night -- the storm had worsened after nightfall -- but in those cramped quarters it had been difficult enough to clear a space for one attendant to rest, and I had need to replenish my medicines and my strength before beginning afresh.

I started for home through the gently falling snow, and had walked nearly a quarter of a mile through the deserted streets before I found a cab to hire for the rest of the journey. We were on Oxford Street when the horse hit a patch of ice and went down, taking the cab with it. I had been relaxed and drowsing under the carriage rug, which probably saved me from broken bones, and was more shaken than hurt. I soon extricated myself from the wreckage and managed to get to my feet without great difficulty though my ancient wounds ached with the sudden strain.

The cabbie was in far worse case than I. He had been thrown from his perch onto the ground and was clearly concussed, but his concern was all for his horse. The cries of the downed creature were pitiful to hear, and we could see that its leg was broken for the bone had broken the skin and blood was pouring onto the snow. My revolver was in my room at home, and I needed to reserve the morphine in my bag for the man, so I had no better means to ease the poor beast than my amputation knife. The cabbie was uncertain about it, but I assured him that I had done the same office for wounded horses in Afghanistan, and reluctantly he gave his consent.

I covered its eyes with my overcoat and the cabbie soothed it as best he could before I drew the blade across its throat. It fought to rise at the first sting, but with my knee on its neck it could not, and after what seemed a very long time it lay still and quiet, the pool of hot blood steaming in the swirl of snow. I led the weeping cabbie to some nearby steps and bandaged his head for him while he told me tales about his lost horse and praised its qualities.

At that juncture I confess myself to have been at a loss to know how to proceed. The dead horse would need to go to the knackers -- it could not be left in the street. The injured man needed to be somewhere warm where he could sleep; even with the carriage rug added to his cloak he could not stop shivering. And I was suddenly, overwhelmingly, weary. I wanted nothing more than to find some aspirin and my bed.

The intervention of the owner of the steps, who had been roused by the horse's cries but delayed by his wife's concern and the need to dress warmly before opening his door, was most welcome. He was a businessman named Robert Smith, and on the telephone exchange, and he informed me as we helped the cabbie into the warmth of the kitchen that he had already called for police and ambulance as well as his own doctor. He offered to call my home as well, and I had to explain that we had yet to install a telephone.

"And you a doctor?" he exclaimed. "How do your patients find you?"

"By telegram or messenger," I admitted. "Although I think that's going to need to change." I glanced at the clock on the mantel and startled. It was near three in the morning. "Is that clock right?"

"It is."

"Good heavens, I hope Mrs. Hudson isn't still sitting up waiting for me," I said. "I meant to be home hours ago."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Our landlady. She's getting frail these days, and she worries more than she used to." I ran a hand through my hair, trying to balance my need to go home against the needs of my patient. The cabbie was sitting quietly, holding his hands out to the stove, and his color was better than I had thought it would be. "You say your doctor is enroute?"

"He is."

I made up my mind. The cabby would be all right as long as he was kept warm and seen to, and I hadn't more than three blocks between myself and my bed. "If you don't mind, then, I think I should head for home. It's not far to Baker Street. Here is my card, however, should the police or your doctor require a description of what happened."

"Doctor John H. Watson... not the Dr. Watson? Friend of Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, that's right." I hunted for my scarf for a moment before giving it up as a bad job.

"But this is wonderful! I've often wished I should have the opportunity to meet you. Although I thought you were more a writer than a doctor." My host's curiosity would have been flattering were I not so tired.

"I am both," I said curtly, and then softened my words when I realized I was being harsh. "Please, pardon me. I have had rather a long day with all this influenza about and tomorrow promises to be much the same. But perhaps I can come by to thank you properly on another occasion."

"Yes, yes, of course. Are you sure you shouldn't rather wait for another cab?"

"Given what happened to the last one I'm probably safer walking."

\---

I began to climb the stairs to our sitting room, and had nearly reached the top when some combination of weariness and cold brought my foot down wrong. My stick dropped out of my hand as I caught out in panic for the banister rail, and before I knew it I was falling, crying out as I caromed downwards and landed, the breath knocked out of me, at the base of the stairs.

My hat saved me from a concussion, but I was still stunned, and it was more than I could do to respond when Holmes' appeared on the landing with a candle, barefoot and in his nightshirt. "Watson!" he shouted as he recognized me, and came down the stairs two at a time, neatly hopping over my stick and bag. "Watson, what happened?"

I had not breath to answer him, but managed to wave a hand to indicate that I was still alive and not too badly hurt. He began to check for broken bones, very gently, but the pain shot through me nonetheless when he touched my left arm.

Mrs. Hudson appeared over Holmes' shoulder. "Good heavens! What's happened to the doctor?"

"He fell," Holmes answered. "More than that I cannot say... " he frowned as the light from Mrs. Hudson's lamp fell on me more fully and his hand came away from my coat red and wet. "This is blood."

For a moment I was almost as frightened as he, but then I remembered the horse whose throat I had cut. "Not mine," I mouthed between gasping attempts to fill my lungs again. Holmes, thank goodness, noticed the effort and paused in his examination long enough to smile a reassurance at me.

"Your evening must have been even more interesting than mine, my dear fellow. Can you move your legs without pain?"

I tried it. The old wound protested, and there were bruises, but no lightning coming up my spine, which there would have been if I'd done myself a serious hurt. I nodded, saving the air for my lungs.

"And both arms?" he said, looking at the left one. I'd waved with the right before.

That was harder -- I'd definitely done the bad shoulder some damage. But I could make a fist and release it, and Holmes blew out a breath of relief.

"Your neck seems intact as well. In which case, with your permission, I think I had best get you upstairs and into a warm bath. You're more than half-frozen." He turned to the landlady. "Mrs. Hudson, would you go and light the geyser for us? And if you would be so kind as to fetch some towels and Dr. Watson's night things I would be much obliged."

"Shouldn't I send for a doctor instead?"

"In this storm?" Holmes said. "Dear lady, I would not dream of sending you or the boy out that door just now. If I think the need warrants it, I shall go myself, but let us first determine the extent of the damage."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson said, making her careful way past me and starting up the stairs.

With great care for my left shoulder, Holmes began to maneuver me upright. I'd nearly got enough air in my lungs by then, and I think I tried to protest, but Holmes would have none of it. "You'd never manage on your own, old fellow," he said, as he helped me up the stairs. "You're shaking like a leaf."

"I'm sorry," I managed, though I was very glad of Holmes' support. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"I'm sure you didn't." We reached the upstairs hall and Holmes aimed us for the bathroom, where we could hear the clunking and hissing of the geyser.

Mrs. Hudson was busy laying out towels and soap, but at a word from Holmes she vanished upstairs to my bedroom. I was shaking all the harder by then, and couldn't seem to keep my eyes open.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted here: http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/12284.html


End file.
